Orphans
by PlayerPiano
Summary: Mary Van Dort, Victor and Victoria's youngest daughter, is all grown up. Now in her fifties, she hasn't been home for thirty years. Only news of her father's death brings her back, with misgivings. An exploration of dealing with a parent's death, the relationship between adult siblings, and the long-lasting repercussions of the past.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:I don't own Corpse Bride or its characters. So, back again. After I wrote "Lavender," a few people wondered what had happened to Mary, Victor and Victoria's youngest daughter in my stories. This story is an exploration of just what happened. And also, a little bit of a cross-over Easter egg because I thought it would be fun. And funny. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but, as ever, got away from me, so it will be in serial fashion even though it's almost done. Please enjoy, and feedback is always welcome!  
**

**Orphans**

"Oh, Dad," Mary whispered. "Dad, you silly idiot. Why weren't you more careful?"

Mary sat alone in her little kitchen, the morning newspaper spread out on the table before her. Usually she skipped the business section. This morning, though, a headline had caught her eye as she flipped through the pages. In a tiny corner box, bolded letters announced:

**VICTOR VAN DORT, OWNER OF VAN DORT CANNERIES, DEAD AT 83.**

Mary read the little article over again. Not much to it, really. Only two paragraphs. Dad had been crossing the street on a rainy day. He had been hit by a bus, not a hundred yards from the house. Nearly a week ago. In addition to the news of her father's death, the article also let her know that Lydia Van Dort, who had apparently gone back to using her maiden name, was now owner and CEO of the business. Also, donations in Mr. Van Dort's memory could be made to any local branches of lepidoptery societies.

Mary rubbed at her eyes. This was unreal. Dad was gone. Why hadn't anyone called her?

"Morning, dear," said Walter, Mary's husband, as he strolled over to the coffee pot. He was stout and comfortable-looking, easy-going and quiet. Ten years older than she.

"Dad died," she announced. Mary hoped it would feel a bit more real if she said it out loud.

There was a clink as Walter set his coffee cup down. He made a sympathy noise and came over to stand at her shoulder. Mary pointed to the article.

"Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry," said Walter, clumsily patting her back. Mary shrugged him off as delicately as she could, and then reached for her own stone-cold coffee.

"It's fine," she muttered. She was trying to remember the last time she'd seen Dad. She'd spoken to him on the phone a couple years ago, after Mom had died. But the last time she'd ___seen _him? Staring into her cup, she thought back over the years. Had it been after Dorothy was born? Decades ago. That couldn't be...

"What a shame," Walter remarked, settling himself with his coffee and the sports section. He shook his head. "Your father was a good man. I'm sorry we found out like this. Why didn't your sisters let you know?"

Mary shrugged again. Come to think of it, she wasn't sure if she'd let anyone know she and Walter had moved. Did Anne know? Had Mary sent Christmas cards this past year, the year before? Mary stared into the dregs at the bottom of her coffee cup. Life was so busy. Particularly since Dorothy had left for college, and since Susan had had her baby.

Just then the kitchen phone began to ring. Mary jumped up and caught it before it was halfway through.

"Hi, Lydia," she said, twisting the telephone cord around her fingers. "Yes, I know, I just read about it. Uh...no, don't worry about not calling sooner..."

0—0

There was no avoiding a trip back this time. The funeral was scheduled for later in the week. So Mary had to rush. Thank goodness she was retired and had the time and cash to spare.

Walter had offered to come with her, but Mary had refused. The girls, for whom Dad had always been just a hazy source of birthday and Christmas money, had also offered in a half-hearted way. Mary had refused them, too. Susan had a toddler. Dorothy had classes. Walter had work. Those were the reasons she gave for refusing all three. She did promise to pass along their condolences.

Yet the truth of it was a bit more complicated. For the past thirty years she'd carefully constructed a life for herself completely separate from her old one. So separate, in fact, that Mary Van Dort-Stieglitz seemed like a character from a novel. Who knew what would happen if her present and her past were to meet? Mary didn't want to find out. She'd do this alone.

Fly in, go to the funeral, fly home. No fuss. She'd only packed her nightgown and her serviceable black dress, a toothbrush and a change of shoes. That was all. Walter, not one much for physical affection, had simply waved and wished her a good trip on her way out the door. If he was worried about her traveling unaccompanied, he had the sense not to mention it. She'd only be away for a few days, anyway.

Mary had loved to travel, once upon a time. Fred had traveled often for his photography work. Once they'd married they'd gone all over the world together. After Fred, though, Mary stayed put. The wanderlust and adventure was gone. Mary shrugged away these thoughts as she boarded her plane. This was the first time she'd traveled since they'd moved to New Holland. Before that had been the ship to New York. Thirty years ago.

One would think that in these modern times getting to the village would be easier than in the past. Mary found the opposite to be true. Not least because the country of her birth technically no longer existed after the war. Cartographical or treaty error, Mary wasn't sure. Either way it made passport stamping a headache. The airplane got her halfway there overnight. Then the train. Then a taxicab from the station to the village. Quicker than a ship, at least, if a lot less romantic.

The following day, she arrived at the little train station, larger and neater than she remembered. Only the taxicab was left. It idled by the station house, waiting for her. Soon she'd be back in the village. Worry began to gnaw at her stomach, and she felt deeply uncomfortable. Try as she might she couldn't shake the feeling. So she decided to ignore it. She owed Dad, and the family, this trip. This last goodbye.

When she climbed into the back of the taxi waiting for her at the train station, Mary found herself thinking fondly of the Death Trap, and the time so long ago when Grandmamma had picked her up at the station in it. How she and Catherine had loved being seen in that thing. She'd not thought about Grandad's old touring car in years. Her smile faded, and a coldness settled on her. There was a lot she hadn't thought about in years. Mary settled back in her seat and stared out the window, watching the scenery pass by.

The roads were different. Fewer trees in some places, more in others. A lot more houses along the way, neat little neighborhoods which, like the one she and Walter lived in, had the air of new beginnings, turning over a new leaf. Only as they neared the old familiar forest, following the road that ran more or less parallel to the river, did Mary begin to feel as if she was in some sort of time warp. The feeling got worse when the taxi pulled up along the curb of the new sidewalk before her childhood home on the outskirts of the village. She'd arranged to meet Lydia there upon her arrival. From there they'd go to the service later in the day. Where, Mary had no idea. She'd noticed that the old stone church was gone. Maybe there was a new one somewhere.

Mary paid the driver, grabbed her bag, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She stood there, gazing up at the house she'd grown up in. It hadn't changed much in thirty years. A comfortable old place that looked like St. Basil's Cathedral and a stately American Queen Anne had gotten together and had a baby house. There was a tall iron fence around the property now, helping to separate it from the houses that had sprung up on either side. A tall gate opened onto the circular drive. Even from the street, Mary could see a black mourning wreath on the front door. Plainly they still did things the old-fashioned way around here.

Hesitantly, Mary approached the closed gates and gave an experimental push. Unlocked. Clutching the bars like a prisoner, she looked up at the house, at the garden. Mother's garden. It was still well-kept and vibrant. Mom would be happy about that, if she knew. The last time Mary had spoken to her mother on the telephone had been about two weeks before Mom had died. It was summer, and the conversation had been a lot about gardening. Mom had told her how she wasn't up to doing all of the work she used to, and how she missed taking care of her flowers. One of Mary's nephews helped her, and it gave her pleasure to share, but it still wasn't the same.

"I miss my roses," Mom had said wistfully, but still with a smile in her wavery old voice. And then Mom had been gone, shocking everyone. Mary hadn't even had the chance to tell her about her new great-grandson. Mary had missed Mom's funeral. She'd simply been unable to get away. Dad had been sad. Lydia, had she been able to, would have killed her over the telephone. Probably Lydia still hadn't quite forgiven her. Not attending the funeral was just the latest infraction.

Mary stepped back. She wasn't ready to go in there yet.

Quickly she snatched up her suitcase and, waving her free hand, made a mad dash back to the curb. The taxicab, which had already begun to pull away, screeched to a decidedly sideways halt.

"Listen, can you take me into the village instead?" asked Mary, pulling a fiver out of her handbag. The driver just glanced at the bill and shrugged.

"I can take you to the gate," he told her. "Cars aren't allowed inside the walls."

"Never mind," said Mary. "I'll walk."

Bag in hand, Mary set off. Down the street there was a little makeshift memorial for Dad. Villagers had set out a few tired-looking bunches of flowers. That was nice of them. Mary slowed and looked them over, but didn't stop. A bus rumbled by, clattering as if it was going to fall apart at any moment. She wondered if that bus had been the one Dad had had his final run-in with. Heavy-hearted, she watched it turn the corner into what was left of the forest.

Mary felt so strange, walking this way, familiar but not. She came to the walls of the old village. There was even a plaque designating it as such. "The Old Village." Right above a smaller sign which read, "Closed to Motor Vehicles." Mary took a deep breath and stepped through the open gates.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

"Wow," breathed Mary, looking about. Talk about a time warp. Stepping into the village proper, standing within the walls, she was a kid again.

All the shopfronts looked familiar. The same rooflines, the same cobbles, the same statue. The same gray cast to the sky. For a long time Mary stood by the statue, bag in hand, and stared. Different, yet not. The village looked a bit more weathered, but that was all. Very few nods to modernity aside from small lit signs here and there. The few villagers out and about had familiar looking faces, every one of them pale. Every color muted, blacks and navies and mauves and reds. Even the smell was the same-that cold scent of impending snow no matter what the season, dead leaves, and the pungent smell of fish from her family's cannery underneath it all. The Everglot and Van Dort mansions still served as the village's anchors. She wondered who lived in each of them now. Mary'd kept herself so out of touch she didn't even know if the houses were still in the family. Not that it was really any of her business anymore. Mary looked back and forth between the two houses, remembering. And trying not to remember. The dueling efforts were giving her a headache.

_Would you just look at the light in this place! _

So clear was Fred's remembered voice that Mary actually turned to see if he'd somehow materialized beside her. Flesh and blood again, twenty years old, fair and strapping and full of a brightness that was too colorful for this place. The love of her life, alive again.

_Just think of the photographs I'll get with this light. The shadows! I need to test...Mary, go pose by the statue, I'll take a snap!_

Pose she had, right in this very spot, when she was barely twenty herself. Mary could almost hear the click of the shutter. She shivered. That picture had been in the lot she'd burned. Right before she'd closed her eyes without any intention of opening them again. Another chill ran down her back. Her head was really pounding now.

She needed a cigarette.

Mary checked to make sure her cigarette case wasn't empty (she'd been chain-smoking on the train), and then tried to find a likely spot. Just five minutes to smoke, to regroup, to calm down and reassure herself that she needn't stay any longer than necessary. Not when the ghosts were already showing up. With the barest hint of a grin, she decided to do what her younger self would have done. Casually she strolled toward the Everglot mansion, ducking down the alleyway between the house and the clock shop (still a clock shop, remarkable!).

On the portico she set her bag down and leaned against the wall, feeling oddly at home as she smoked. Who knew who lived here now. Last she'd heard from Anne, a lot of time and effort had been spent trying to find the closest male relative after Grandfather Everglot died. Nobody had ever mentioned finding one. The bank or historical society probably owned the place now. And if anyone came out to complain about her smoking on the porch, Mary decided, all she had to do was put on her best Grandmother Everglot impression and pull rank as a long-lost family member.

Cigarette in hand, Mary peeped through the window into the parlor. It certainly ___looked _like a museum. The antique furniture Grandmother and Grandfather had spent so long collecting again when they finally had the cash, the Everglot portraits on the walls.

Without warning, the French doors flew open. Mary, startled, cried out and took a step back. Hastily she dropped her cigarette and stubbed it out beneath her sensible black pump. Before her stood an extremely tall, extremely pretty girl, perhaps in her mid-twenties or so. Something about her was familiar. She was wearing a simple but clearly high-quality blouse and skirt.

"Good morning," said the girl with a smile.

"Morning," said Mary.

"If you're looking for the tour, you might catch up with them in the West Drawing Room," said the girl, gesturing with her entire arm. She wasn't to know that Mary knew precisely where the West Drawing Room was. Nor how often she'd taken tea in it. "There's a small fee, but you can pay afterwards."

"I'm not...er, no," replied Mary, unsure of how much she wanted to say.

"Well, I'll be damned!" came a voice from inside the house. "Is that Mary?"

Mary and the girl looked behind them into the gloom of the parlor. A tall handsome gentleman was coming toward them, arms open and a wide smile on his face. That smile. Oh, God. It was Teddy. Count Van Lynden. Catherine's husband. Mary smiled back, and held out her own arms for a hug. The girl, whose smile was now a bemused one, stepped aside to let them have their little reunion.

Always handsome, Theodore Van Lynden had aged very well. He'd probably still be able to sweep a young heiress off her feet, even if he wasn't twenty-three anymore. Mary remembered very well the day he'd arrived in the village, quite out of the blue, to announce that he was now Count Van Lynden, his great-great-uncle having died. He'd pulled up in a white Rolls Royce, met Catherine, and the two of them had almost immediately decided they'd be happy to honor the marriage contract Grandmamma and the late Count had arranged. It had all been like something out of a costume drama.

"So dreadful about your father," Teddy said now, pulling away. "Very sad. I'm so sorry. Kitty has been very stoic, however. She's arranging the final details of the service as we speak. I don't think you've had the pleasure of meeting Vinnie, have you?"

Mary looked back at the young lady who had let her in. So this was Lavinia, her niece. They'd never met. Looking between father and daughter, Mary could now easily see the resemblance. But the girl had Catherine's fair hair.

"Pleasure," said Lavinia, raising a hand.

Teddy motioned her inside, where the three of them stood rather awkwardly near the doors, he explained that, finances being what they were, most of the mansion was kept up for tours. The entrance fees from the tourists who liked to look at old houses kept the mansion going. The family area was in the back of the house.

"Such is the way of things," Teddy said with a smile. "At least the Van Lynden castle is still all ours. We're only here part of the year, anyway."

Mary had missed something, but smiled and nodded as if she understood. She and Catherine didn't really write anymore. She knew Catherine and Teddy traveled a lot and had several houses, but that was all.

"Funniest thing," Teddy explained, seeing her expression. "Family trees being what they are, connections everywhere. Turns out yours truly was the closest male relative to the Everglots. ___Very _distant, though, you understand. Cousins quite a few times removed. ___We're _Lord and Lady Everglot now. Kitty and I."

"Wow," said Mary. So Catherine got titled twice. Grandmamma would have been thrilled. Grandmother Everglot probably less so. There were probably lots of pastels and throw pillows around the place now.

"Do come up to the family area," Teddy said, offering his elbow. "Kitty would love to see you, particularly in advance of the service. Vinnie, go tell your mother her sister is here to see her."

Catherine. When had she last seen Catherine? Beautiful Countess Van Lynden, famous for her charity work and globetrotting. She and Teddy had owned a house and a racehorse in Saratoga when Mary still lived in New York. That must have been the last time. They had played a few lively games of international telephone tag, and then both had quietly given up. Mary felt guilty. Catherine probably would be as unhappy with her as Lydia, despite the fact that the two of them had always been fairly close. Vivacious Catherine would probably still be shocked and maybe repulsed by what Mary had done. If she even knew. She'd not mentioned it. Mary didn't want to find out. The very thought made her feel a little sick.

"Wait," said Mary. Teddy and Lavinia turned back to her, questioning.

"I'm supposed to go see Lydia first," explained Mary heavily as she checked her watch. "I'm late."

"We'll see you later on, then, Mary," Theodore told her, wrapping her in another exuberant hug. For a moment he held Mary at arm's length and studied her. "Kitty's missed you so, she truly has. We all have. I'm sorry for the circumstances, of course, but it's lovely to see you again."

Freed, Mary headed back out into the square, resolutely not looking back. She could feel her niece's and brother-in-law's eyes on her. Probably wondering what her problem was. She felt fortunate that she'd gotten away so easily. As she crossed the square Mary slowed to look at the Van Dort mansion. A sign caught her eye, one she'd missed on the way into the village. Mary stifled a laugh. Ooh, if Grandmamma knew about this, she'd flip.

The mansion Grandmamma and Grandad had put so much pride in was no longer a private residence. The fish statues flanking the stairs, the aquarium-like enormous window on the second floor, all now belonged to Van Dort Corporate Headquarters. The sign, neatly plastered above the front doors, was discreet and businesslike and had Lydia's fingerprints all over it. The logo in the corner was different. For years Grandad's aproned self had been the company face. Now, Van Dort's Fish was represented by a majestic leaping salmon on a field of blue, reminiscent of the family crest Grandad had paid so handsomely for.

Mary smirked. That, at least, wasn't a surprise. Van Dort's canned salmon was a bestseller even in New Holland's shiny new supermarket, so Mary had noticed when the label changed. Buying it on those rare occasions she and Walter fancied some fish made her feel as close to home as she cared to be. An act of solidarity, maybe.

The heavy front door of the house opened and a man emerged. Fair and of average height. The man came down the steps and was almost past her when, after nodding politely, he stopped and stared.

"Mary?" asked the man, looking her up and down. Mary squinted.

"Ned?" she asked in return. But upon a second look there could be no doubt. They stepped forward at the same time and shook hands. No enthusiastic hugging this time. This brother-in-law was not the type, if Mary remembered correctly. Ned Weary, married to her sister Anne. They had an army of kids and grandkids, faces Mary knew from photographs Anne sent at Christmas. The Wearys had been keeping the village populated, at least. Kind old Ned, more wrinkled and tired-looking now (who wasn't?), with his glasses and pinned-up sleeve, a souvenir of his war service.

"It's so good to see you," Ned said, putting his hand in his pocket. "Terrible about the circumstances. But I'm so pleased you were able to be here. Anne always tells me how busy you are."

_I bet,_ thought Mary. Mary hadn't seen Anne since she'd left home. All the same Anne had been a dedicated correspondent over the decades, never seeming to mind the many times Mary guiltily neglected to respond. Christmas cards, birthday cards, letters once every few months detailing village gossip and family news. Birth and wedding announcements. Small gifts and cards for Mary's daughters on their birthdays. So very like Anne. Never anything so intrusive as a phone call, but still the desire to keep Mary in the fold. Even, apparently, to the point of talking to Ned as if she heard from Mary regularly.

"You still work at the cannery?" Mary asked, trying to move the topic to one other than herself. He nodded.

"Head of finances," Ned replied, not without some pride. Then he sobered. "I'm so sorry about your father. It's been...very hard. For our granddaughter Alice in particular." Ned lowered his voice. "Mr. Van Dort was on the way to her birthday party when the accident happened. She's quite torn up over it, poor thing."

"Ouch," said Mary, wincing. "That's terrible." The poor kid. Mary tried to think which great-niece Alice was, flipping through her mental file of Weary family photos from Christmases past. Was Alice the black-haired one? Or the one who looked creepily like Mom? Mary wasn't sure.

"It's been hard for Anne, as well," Ned added. "You know how close they were."

Mary nodded. Yes, she remembered. Oh, Anne. Sweet old Anne. Sometimes sweet to the point of tiresome Anne. But Dad had always liked her just as she was. Thick as thieves, even after Anne had married. Mary and her sisters had gotten used to it, the favoritism. She probably was taking Dad's death the hardest out of all of them. Mary'd done her crying as she packed her things back home in New Holland. Now she didn't feel much of anything. Maybe she should feel more guilty about that. _Or maybe I'm all grieved out_, she thought, pushing away memories of the last funeral she'd been to. The thunk of earth audible even through a medicated haze. Mary shook her head to clear out the sound.

"Technically the office is closed today. In honor of your father," Ned was saying. "Lydia had asked me to check in on things. You know how she is."

"Do I ever," said Mary, forcing a little laugh, which Ned joined.

"Listen," he said, looking at her fondly, "I'm heading home now to prepare and have lunch. Why not come by the house before the service? Anne would love to see you. And the children would, as well."

It made Mary's stomach twist with guilt. She didn't think she was quite ready to see Anne yet. Especially not a red-eyed and grieving Anne. Soon, but not just now. Mary wasn't ready. The funeral was coming soon enough. She badly needed those few hours. Besides, she'd rather not be any more emotionally drained than she could help before seeing Lydia.

So she shook her head and hoisted her bag. "I need to go see Lydia," she told him. "I said I'd meet her at the house when I arrived. Now I'm really late."

Ned, ever pleasant, nodded without pressing her further. He of all people would know how Lydia felt about punctuality. "All right, then," he said. "Do come see us this evening, if you like, after the reception at your parents' house. All of the family is here. Our door is open."

Again, that twist of guilt. Mary swallowed, hoping her cheeks weren't going pink with the flush of shame she felt. "I'll think about it, thanks."

For a moment they simply stood and looked at one another, Ned with a fond smile and Mary attempting to match his expression. Soon enough she gave up.

"See you later, then," Mary told him. And then she was off, back across the square and through the gates.

It was time to go home.


	3. Chapter 3

**3**

"Oh my God," Mary breathed when she stepped into the entry. It was like stepping back in time. She gently closed the front door behind her, and set her bag near the valet. After a moment's hesitation she unbuttoned her coat.

The house, built new when Mom and Dad had married, had aged well. Everything was clean and kept up. The furniture just the same as the day she'd left. The grandfather clock in the hall was still ticking away, its steady rhythm the heartbeat of the house. The sweeping staircase with the shiny bannister she'd slid down as a girl, any time she was reasonably sure she wouldn't get caught.

The valet by the door still held jackets and hats. Most of them looked like they must be Lydia's. Mary touched a familiar-looking brown one. Wealthiest man in town, Dad had been, and he hadn't bought a new coat in decades. Mary smiled. She shrugged out of her own coat and hung it up next to Dad's.

The sound of a dog barking made her jump. Mary turned and looked all around, half-expecting some sort of guard dog to leap out at her. Finally, she glanced down. Standing in the parlor doorway was a small Scottish terrier. The dog looked up at her, appearing to be sizing her up. It barked again, an odd sort of bark. More of a half-sighed, half-growled _woof_.

"Hello, dog," said Mary. She was rather indifferent to pets. She bent and held out a hand. The gesture seemed to be all the invitation the dog needed. The dog snuffled at her fingers and then happily accepted a cursory scratch behind the ears.

"Lorna, be quiet," called a voice from down the hall which led to the study. For a crazy moment Mary thought it was Dad's voice, it was so similar to his. But no. Down the hall a door opened, followed by footsteps.

"Oh," said Lydia as she arrived in the entry. She stopped near the telephone alcove and crossed her arms over her chest. Slowly Mary straightened up. The tension between them was palpable as they regarded one another. "Hello, Mary."

Lydia, the oldest of them, was still six-foot-four with only the slightest hint of a stoop, still slender and long-fingered, still a touch gaunt around the cheekbones. Her dark hair had mostly gone a steely gray, and she wore it in a braided coil. She wore small glasses now, as well. Otherwise, she was still a dead ringer for Dad. Particularly when wearing striped trousers and a rather mannish blouse, as she was now.

"Hello," said Mary. She couldn't help feeling a bit wary, on edge. Before she could say anything else, Lydia strode over and gave her a hug.

"It's nice to see you," said Lydia, sounding sincere. Mary's mumbled agreement was lost in Lydia's shoulder. Lydia let go, leaving Mary happily surprised if a little confused. "Come along, come down to the study."

She turned and walked down the hall with Lorna at her heels, leaving Mary to follow. Mary was not surprised to see that the study had changed very little over the years. Dustier, maybe, but the desk and shelves were still as neat as Dad always liked to keep them. There were a lot of notebooks and drawing supplies, but everything had its place. The only difference was that the room reeked of tobacco smoke. Mary noticed an overflowing crystal ashtray and an ivory cigarette holder to one side of the desk as soon as they walked in.

"I did try to telephone you sooner," Lydia said, folding herself into one of the armchairs by the fireplace. The dog sat by her feet, a picture of obedience. "I didn't realize you'd moved."

"Er, yes," said Mary, taking a seat in the other armchair. "To New Holland, where Walter's from. Two years ago, almost."

The words hung in the air. Lydia was eyeing her. "What?" Mary asked. Lydia shrugged. She took a silver cigarette case from the corner of the desk-an easy reach with her long arms-removed a cigarette, and offered the case to Mary, who refused. Lydia replaced the case and took up the silver lighter.

"Been a while since I heard you talk. In person, anyway. You sound just like Grandmother Everglot, it's uncanny," said Lydia, lighting her cigarette. "Well, if Grandmother was from America, that is."

_And you sound like Dad, if Dad had eaten a bag of nails, _Mary thought, watching a cloud of smoke disperse around Lydia's head.

"I'm glad you came, Mary," Lydia told her somberly. "As I said on the telephone, you're welcome to stay with me. Here at the house. All of the family are very much looking forward to seeing you. To _meeting _you, for the younger ones."

The dig was not lost on Mary. She sat back in her chair and clenched her fists, hoping her face was impassive. Mary was bad at keeping her face impassive. Lydia just kept going. "Catherine arrived a few days ago, and she's setting up to stay for the season. There's also all of the dreadful things like wills and probate and such to get through, but as we'll all be here for a while-"

"I'm just staying through tomorrow morning," Mary interrupted quickly. Might as well say it now. "I only came for the funeral." Immediately Lydia's eyes narrowed. _Here we go, _thought Mary, bracing herself.

"I see," Lydia said, her voice cool. "You're welcome to stay with me for tonight, then." Lydia stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the desk with some force. When she spoke next her tone was positively dripping with acid. "There _is _a reception after the funeral, I trust you'll at least be able to remain for that? If it's not too much inconvenience for you, of course. Between packing and all."

"Yes," Mary replied simply. "I'll stay."

"Good," said Lydia flatly. Probably just the way she spoke to employees. Mary wanted to slap her. "The service is at four, everyone is coming here afterward. Make yourself at home until then. I have a bit more work to finish first."

Lydia stood, and Mary knew she was dismissed. "Right," said Mary, feeling like she was five again.

Mary walked through the house as if touring a museum. That was what it felt like. This didn't feel like home anymore. Home was her little tract house in New Holland. Home was the brownstone in New York, where her daughters had grown up. Home was not this house, and hadn't been for a long time.

In the parlor Mary, driven mostly by muscle memory, took a seat on the sofa. Mom's rocker and Dad's armchair were still in their places by the fireplace. Atop the mantel, in a neat row, were wedding portraits, all in neat silver frames of different shapes and sizes. Mary felt a little guilty for never sending photographs of her and Walter. Not that they'd had one taken. The judge's office where they'd been married hadn't been that nice-looking, anyway.

Mom and Dad had pride of place, of course. Even now Mary had every detail of their wedding portrait memorized. Next to them was Anne and Ned, taken the day Ned had left on the troop train. In the photograph he was wearing his uniform. Anne wore her second-day dress. Lydia and Mr. Van Schelven's wedding photo was the simplest, small and plain and practical. The largest frame and largest photo, of course, belonged to Catherine and Theodore. What a to-do _that _wedding had been. A bit on the tasteless side, so soon after the war, but who cared?

The last one, all the way at the end, was of her. Her and Freddy. Mary stood up and went to take a closer look. She peered at her younger self. Goodness, Susan looked like her. Well, the her of a lifetime ago. Mary's veil had been longer than her dress. If one looked very, very closely, one could see the little pin of family wedding flowers on her bosom. Mary wondered who had ended up with those. And there, next to her, was Fred. Fred, so ruggedly handsome. Even now it hurt to think how wasted he'd looked at the end. The end which had come only four years after that picture had been taken. Only four years.

Mary turned and went upstairs to change her clothes.

0—0

The funeral was nice. As funerals went.

The entire service was a graveside one. Short and simple and perfunctory. Which suited Mary fine. As soon as they'd entered the cemetery gates, Mary's heart had begun to pound. She and Lydia had been among the last to arrive, tailed by a few Wearys. Catherine and Anne were on her like hens on ticks the moment they spotted her. Mary felt crushed, but in a nice way.

If either of them minded that she'd turned up hours ago and not come to see them, they didn't mention it. Instead they hugged her as if she'd only been absent three weeks instead of three decades. Mary had forgotten how short the two of them were. In her memories, Mary was always the small one. But in reality, she was a good six inches taller than both of her older sisters.

Anne looked like a grandma. It was the only way to describe her. Petite and plumper than Mary remembered, with fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Most of her hair was still black. And Catherine, she was still glamorous. Fair and elegantly dressed, perfectly poised. She looked every inch a woman with two titles. Catherine took Mary's arm and led her to the gravesite by the river, just under the oak tree.

The entire clan stood gathered about the grave, all in mourning clothes. There was Ned, who nodded to her. There were Teddy and Lavinia, off to one side. Anne introduced her to everyone, though Mary began to forget names as soon as Anne had whispered them. She did note, however, that Alice was indeed the teenager who bore a creepy resemblance to Mom.

Somehow Mary had assumed Pastor Galswells would still be the spiritual steward of the village. He'd been one of those men who seemed eternal. Turned out he'd been as mortal as any of them. Lydia had mentioned, though, that he'd made to over a century old before he did pass on. Good thing he'd gone before the church did. Mary shook hands with the fresh-faced new pastor only to be told he was her nephew.

"My son Edgar," said Anne. To the young man's credit, he made it through the service quite professionally, only getting choked up toward the end. Mary did her best not to look into the fresh grave as the service went on. Instead she looked up at the oak tree, which was shedding its leaves. Already a little blanket of them covered Mom's side. As Mary watched one leaf gently spiraled its way into Dad's. Just after it fell, the family began to disperse around her.

Soon enough it was just the four sisters gathered in a huddle at the foot of the grave. Each held a fistful of earth. It was cold and crumbly in Mary's hand. Unable to bear the feel of it, Mary tossed hers in first. She tried not to hear that very final thud as the dirt hit Dad's coffin.

_It's not really him in there anymore, _Mary reminded herself as Catherine went next. Delicately she held out her fist and let the earth drop.

"Goodbye, Father," she whispered, her husky voice made more so with tears. She cleared her throat, and put a hand up under her veil to wipe her cheeks.

Lydia said nothing. All she did was toss her portion of dirt underhand into the grave. It scattered in midair and fell with a sound like pellets. Then she stepped back. Anne, surprisingly, had managed to turn off the waterworks. She'd been leaking like a faucet, tears streaming down her face the entire time her son had been speaking. Now her eyes were red but dry, her face solemn. Her sisters watched her as she stood with her handful of dirt poised over Dad's grave. She closed her eyes and was silent for a long time. At long last she let the dirt drop. It didn't make a sound when it fell.

There was a moment of silence, all of them staring into the fresh hole. Men who could only be the gravediggers hovered with their shovels around the edge of the riverbank. Mary thought they had faces like the Hughes in the village. Round, plastered onto distinctly onion-shaped heads. _Hughes_. Why did she remember that?

"We should go," said Anne. She adjusted her hat before taking one last look at the gravestone. She sighed and put a hand to her mouth. Mary put an awkward hand on her shoulder.

"It's too bad we couldn't have a viewing," Catherine remarked quietly as she pulled her elegant black glove back on. "It would have been nice."

"Trust me, you wouldn't have wanted an open casket," said Lydia grimly, wisps of her hair blowing about her face in the breeze. She wiped the last of the dirt off her hands.

Catherine caught Mary's eye. There was a bit of guilt there, and pity. Lydia had been the one to identify Dad. Mary couldn't imagine what that had been like for her. By now tears were once again streaming down Anne's face. Catherine put an arm around her shoulders and led her from the grave. Lydia followed, hands jammed in her coat pockets, hunched against the breeze. Mary nodded to the gravediggers, and then looked one last time at her parents' simple little monument. She didn't know what else to do. So she turned heel and followed behind her older sisters.

The four of them walked back through the cemetery. Mary should really call Walter. Just to let him know she'd made it safely, how the funeral went, et cetera. Back to life, quickly as possible. Her sisters didn't seem to mind strolling through the cemetery. They were taking their time, and Mary soon surpassed them. Behind her, she heard Catherine say, "Not a bad cemetery, is it? Now that it's been modernized a little."

_Not a bad cemetery_, Mary repeated to herself. As if a good one existed.

They'd reached the middle of the graveyard, where the stately Everglot mausoleum stood. Generations of Mom's family were tucked away inside. Right on the other side of the path was a relatively fresh-looking Van Dort mausoleum. Mary did a double take as she went by. The two big families, anchoring the fashionable part of the graveyard. And Mom and Dad just about as far away as they could get. Mary smiled. Silly or no, it seemed fitting.

"We bought the plot just by the brook," Catherine was saying now, "Just finalized yesterday. What with the occasion, such things have been on my mind. Dear Teddy didn't even mind, even though Van Lyndens have been buried on the estate for centuries."

"And we're next to Mother and Father. Near the oak tree," Anne put in. "We took care of that quite a while ago."

"Ours is already started," said Lydia. "I'm not in any hurry to join them, however."

There was a respectful silence. Mary couldn't believe this morbid conversation. They'd just planted Dad. They'd had their moment of silence. Now they could forget about it. Before thoughts of death got to be too much. How could they all talk about it so casually?

"Have you thought about your plans, yet, Mary?" asked Anne, breaking into Mary's angry thoughts. "We all thought...well, that it would be nice to all be in the same cemetery. When the time comes. To all be together."

"No rush, of course," added Lydia. "Just something to think about. Unless you already had something picked out in New Holland." She pronounced _New Ho__lland _as if no one would want to be caught dead there.

Mary turned and walked backward a few paces so that she could stare at them, each in turn. They were nuts. All three of them. And stupid. Mary had figured it out years ago. Life was it. When you were done, you were done. There wasn't any afterlife. Even if there _was_, it was a lousy imitation of the real thing, and only the sad and desperate would bother with it. It was a realization that had been a long, hard time coming, but Mary had finally embraced it. It was pointless to be buried in the same cemetery. They'd all be well beyond caring when the time came. Why bother?

The dead didn't get up and walk. Not Upstairs or Down. Mom didn't. Dad didn't. None of their grandparents. Freddy certainly hadn't. Besides, Mary had a husband! She had kids! If the afterlife did exist, shouldn't she be dead with _them_? Or did her sisters all just want to punish her some more for not sticking around?

"I...er...I'm not really prepared to think about that yet," said Mary stiffly, picking up her pace. By the time they were at the gates she was practically trotting. Her heart fluttered uncomfortably. She didn't bother to wait for her sisters before she began to make her way back to the house.


	4. Chapter 4

**4**

For the sisters the reception lasted well into the evening. Mary never did get around to calling Walter. Maybe she'd have a chance in the morning, before she left again. Long after the final cup of tea had been drained, the last hand shaken, and the last of Anne's progeny was out the door, Mary and her sisters sat at the dining room table. A decanter of whiskey and a few small dishes of leftover food sat upon the table.

Each of them had taken her usual seat, funnily enough. Mary had slid into the farthest left chair on the fireplace side without even thinking about it. Anne and Catherine sat beside each other across from her, as they had every single day of their childhoods. Only Lydia took a different place. She sat at the head of the table, the place between Anne and Mary which had always been Father's.

"Seems fitting," said Lydia as she poured everyone a round of whiskey. "I suppose I'm the head of the family now."

"May God have mercy on us all," replied Catherine wryly, lifting her glass.

"On us all," echoed Mary, hoisting her whiskey as well.

Even Lydia joined in the somber chuckling as the four of them clinked their glasses together. Anne immediately set hers down again without tasting it. Lydia took a shot like a pro and then immediately poured herself another, which she also made disappear rather quickly. Mary looked at her sideways after taking a respectable sip of her own drink. Across the way she noticed Catherine cutting her eyes at Lydia, though she said nothing. She caught Mary's eye and shook her head.

"I'm sure Father's happy, if nothing else," said Anne, running a finger around the rim of her tumbler. "After all, he's with Mother again."

_Oh, God, not this again, _thought Mary. She grabbed a handful of nuts from one of the bowls on the table and shoved the lot in her mouth. While she was chewing, she figured, she wouldn't be able to give in to the impulse to call Anne an idiot.

Lydia broke the silence with short, barking laugh. Stunned, the rest of them turned toward her. Lydia was propped up on her elbows, her face in her hands.

"Ye-es," Lydia drawled. She rubbed her eyes, and laughed again. "I'll bet he is _fucking _thrilled."

"_Liddie!_" gasped Catherine. Anne joined in the gasp, but seemed unable to speak.

"Oh my God," said Mary, who had never heard her sister use language like that. Luckily she was able to suppress the desire to laugh.

"It's what he wanted all along, after all," Lydia went on, refreshing her glass for a third time and not even bothering to pretend to pour a decent measure. Some liquid sloshed over the top. "He couldn't wait to be dead. I'm surprised he lasted as long as he did without offing himself. Don't you remember how he talked about the land of the dead? Like it was some fantastic holiday spot, as if life was just a waiting room or something. Well, cheers, he finally made it fair and square. Bon voyage." Lydia raised her tumbler and downed her drink in one.

Mary sat back in her chair and sighed. This old line. Liddie hadn't been able to let it go, had she? The whole dead bride thing had really thrown her. Badly. Mary figured her sister had long since gotten over it. That ever-present, bone-deep worry that Dad regretted being alive. Regretted them. Oh, there was the anger and betrayal on Mom's behalf, sure, for the way he'd handled things, the idea that he could even fleetingly love another woman. All of them, Mary included, had been bothered by that part of the story. Even despite the evidence of their parents' love for one another. But Lydia had gotten the idea that Dad would rather be dead than with them. She'd never shaken that certainty. If nothing else, Mary could certainly understand deep-seated pain that manifested itself in certain ways. She most certainly could. Mary sipped her drink and enjoyed the burn.

"Liddie, that's enough_,_" Catherine said firmly. She seemed to be the only one of them able to muster speech. Anne had gone white, tears welling up and making her eyes glisten.

Lydia freshened her drink, took another slug, and wiped at the corners of her mouth. "I was sure he was going to do it after Mother died," she said, staring into her glass. "I was here all the time, just in case. On watch, you know."

At those words Mary felt her scalp go prickly. Goosebumps rose on her arms. Quickly she took another deep sip of her own whiskey to calm herself.

"He surprised me, though," Lydia continued. She tilted her glass back and forth, watching what little liquid remain slosh about and catch the light. "He stuck around. He was different, and he was sad, but he stuck around." And then she drained her glass.

"Of _course _he did," Anne said, her voice thick. Lydia reached and poured herself another drink, her sisters watching her carefully.

"Though I guess he might have realized there wasn't a point to going early," Lydia went on, as if Anne hadn't spoken. "Mom stayed dead, didn't she? It wasn't as if she got up again. And Dad sure didn't get up again. At the morgue, I mean. All this land of the dead stuff, getting up and walking around again...I'm really not so sure."

"Me either," said Mary, finishing off her whiskey and setting the tumbler down hard on the table.

"Oh, come along, one never knows," put in Catherine. She took a dainty sip of her whiskey. Leaning back, she patted at her perfectly coiffed hair. "Why would Father lie to us? Or Mother, for that matter? And it is a nice idea, isn't it?"

Lydia snorted and drank half of her whiskey. Without asking she refilled Mary's drink and shoved the tumbler back across the table at her. Mary didn't touch it.

"Ned saw it," Anne said hoarsely. Everyone turned to look at her. Her eyes and nose were red, her cheeks wet. But her voice was steady and firm. "Ned saw what happened, when the dead came back. The afterlife _does _exist. And Father is there. Mother, too. It might not happen like magic, or all the time, but the dead are still with us. Somewhere. And we'll all be together again someday."

There was a silence. Everyone tended to shut up when Anne spoke that way, as she did it so rarely. Mary was reminded of Dad's serious anger voice, of Mom's sarcasm. Infrequently deployed weapons which made them all the more effective when used. Lydia cleared her throat.

"All I'm saying is that being dead with someone isn't the same as being alive with them," Lydia replied, using that careful tone of the drunk attempting to appear perfectly sober. "You say he's happy because he's with Mother again? I think he would've been happier if she hadn't died."

"Of course, but that wasn't what I-" Anne began, but Lydia turned from her, trying to gesture and only managing to weave a bit in her chair. With difficulty she focused on Mary.

"Right, Mary? You understand what I mean," Lydia said. Clumsily she reached and patted Mary's hand. "You would rather have had Fred be alive. Being dead with him wouldn't have been the same. I told you so then."

Mary's chest went cold. Time seemed to halt. Quickly she took stock of Anne and Catherine's expressions across the way. They seemed blank, unreadable. Curling her lip, she took in the sight of her drunk older sister, slumped a bit in her chair.

"Shut up, Lydia," she finally managed. It came out in a growl. "Just...shut up. You're drunk."

"Yes, that's true," replied Lydia. "But it doesn't mean I'm wrong. You wouldn't have liked being dead, you're too alive. And Fred would've been furious..."

"I'm going outside," Mary muttered as she rose from the table. To hear Lydia talk like that was making her crazy.

"Mary," Catherine said, making a move to stand.

"Mary, wait," said Anne. But Mary just waved a hand.

"No, I'll be back," Mary mumbled. "Just...just give me a minute, will you?"

Mary pushed her chair out of the way and rushed into the entry, snatching up her purse from the valet on her way out. Her hands shook as she pulled open the door.

"What is _wrong_ with you, Lydia?!" she heard Catherine cry just before she slammed the front door shut behind her.

On the porch Mary took a deep breath. For the first time in many years she felt close to crying. And she was furious with herself for it. It was being here that did it. She known this would happen. Mary should never have come back. It was just too hard. Too much guilt, too much shame, too much history.

_Fred would have been furious...you're too alive..._Lydia had probably slurred the truth. And Mary hated her for it.

Mary sat down in one of the beat-up wicker chairs on the porch, wishing she'd grabbed her coat. Living in New Holland had made her forget how chilly autumn could be here. With shaking hands she pulled a cigarette from her bag and lit it, the smell soon overpowering the scent of late flowers and fallen leaves. She resolutely did not look over at the rooftops of the newer houses. New being relative, of course. There were a smattering of little houses that had been built after the Great War. She and Freddy had lived in one of them. And then Freddy had died in it.

_I hope the damn place burned down,_ Mary thought viciously.

"We should have her put in a sanitarium, I swear!" Catherine was saying as she huffed her way out of the front door. She was swathed in a mink coat. Behind her came Anne, wearing a gray car coat that had seen better days. Mary hastily stubbed out her cigarette and hoped Lydia wouldn't notice the black mark it left on the porch.

"She's not crazy," said Anne quietly. Catherine huffed again.

"No, but she's a drunk," she replied.

"Poor Liddie's buried a lot of people," Anne told her. "Her baby, her husband, now Mother and Father...I don't think any of us can really imagine."

Catherine was quiet for a moment. Then she sighed. "You're right. Poor Liddie."

"Hi," said Mary, feeling like she was barging in on the somber moment. She stood and walked over to her sisters. Together they stood in a little huddle near the front door.

"Mary, don't worry about her," said Anne gently. "I think it simply hurt her feelings that you've not been here, you know? She's more sensitive than she seems."

Incredulous, Mary stared at her. Then at Catherine. Could they really not know? Just now, with what Lydia had drunkenly said, they didn't guess? Lydia hadn't ever said anything, not once in thirty years? All this time, Mary had just assumed the entire family knew what she'd done, and had judged her for it. This bizarre family, always so weird about death. It hung over them all the time, this idea of the afterlife, the knowledge of mortality. Mary just hadn't been able to take it when it had finally hit close to home. For years she'd believed her sisters and her parents had considered her a quitter, a deserter, for more reasons than one.

But maybe she'd been wrong. Or maybe, if they knew, they still loved her. Anne and Catherine looked up at her, kind and mother-hen-like, the way they'd always treated her.

"Uh...thanks," said Mary. Anne smiled and gently patted her back, petting her as if she was a cat.

"Do think about staying, at least for a while," said Catherine as she waved at her chauffeur. The man had been waiting by the Rolls all night. "We all need a proper visit. _Without_ booze, I should think. Anne, I'll give you a lift."

Anne immediately demurred. "Oh, it's only a mile's walk, and it's barely dusk," she said. "Besides, you know the rules about cars in the Old Village."

"Don't be silly," said Catherine, in that bossy tone that brooked no argument. "We'll stop at the gate, and then we'll walk together." As the car pulled up the drive to the bottom of the steps, Catherine wrapped her arms about Mary. She smelled of expensive flowery perfume. Mary returned the embrace.

"I've missed you, Mary," said Catherine, going so far as to reach up and give Mary's cheek a maternal sort of pat. "You've grown up so, and we've missed it!"

She followed this with a laugh, plainly not meaning much by it, but still Mary felt a deeply uncomfortable twist of guilt. Mary simply shrugged, smiled, and said she'd missed Catherine as well. It was the truth, she realized as she was saying it.

"Don't feel bad about the cemetery either, Mary," Anne said as she too gave Mary a warm hug. "You should do whatever you like. And please do at least write, and perhaps send us some photographs. We'd at least like to see what your family looks like."

Mary looked down at Anne's open, earnest, grandmotherly face, and told herself that this was not a barb. Anne really _did _want pictures and letters. Not to make Mary feel terrible. It was a tough thing for Mary to convince herself of. All the same, she promised a letter and some photos would be sent as soon as she arrived home.

Catherine and Anne slid into the backseat of the car, the driver closing the door smartly behind them. Mary waved until the Rolls was well on its way back toward the village.


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Back inside Mary found Lydia nursing along one more tumbler of whiskey. She'd pushed the chair back from the table, and now leaned fully backward with her long legs stretched before her, crossed at the ankle. The little dog, Lorna, was standing on her hind feet with her front paws on the seat of Lydia's chair, holding the leash in her mouth. Every now and again she'd let out a tiny mournful whine. A nice trick, or so it seemed to Mary.

"Don't you think you should give that a rest?" Mary asked, gesturing at the decanter to note its depletion. Lydia snorted and rubbed a hand over her face.

"Believe me, I know my limit," she said. Then, with a clumsy scratch of the dog's ears, she murmured, "Not just now, Lorna, all right? It's been a long day."

The little dog stopped whining and instead lay down in a heap at Lydia's feet, the leash still in her mouth. Mary felt sorry for her. More than that, she wasn't quite ready to talk to Lydia just yet. It had, as Liddie had just remarked, been a very long day. Mary needed to think.

"I'll take her," said Mary, holding out her hand for the leash. "I'll be back soon," she added. Lydia simply nodded, and then resumed staring up at the ceiling, tumbler held loosely in one hand.

Lorna took the lead. Down the porch steps they went, across the lawn, and through the gates at the bottom of the drive. The little dog moved at a brisk trot, clearly knowing where she was headed. Mary just held the leash and followed her through the brisk autumn night.

Carefully they crossed the road. Mary couldn't help thinking of Dad, and feeling a pang as she did so. Once they reached the other side of the street, Mary realized where they were headed.

"Oh, come on, Lorna," she said, looking up at the decorative arch over the high cemetery gate. "I've already been here once today. I don't think I can take another walk through the graveyard."

But Lorna whined and snuffled and scratched on the gate. It was so pathetic to watch that Mary had to give in.

"Fine," Mary said. And she pushed open the gate.

Somehow the graveyard seemed quieter than the already quiet village. There was a hush here that was almost oppressive. Odd, given the way Dad had always described the Land of the Dead. Perhaps the noise of Downstairs wasn't for the living to know about.

_Or it doesn't exist, _Mary said to herself, and snorted. She didn't care what Ned thought he saw when he was tiny. He was pretty much the only person still around who had actually been there. The walking dead wasn't really something you talked about, anyway. There were bodies beneath the ground, but all they did was rot. Mary was walking over mere husks. Empty containers. Everything about people was gone when they died. Even memories faded eventually.

Lorna, intent and surprisingly strong for such a small dog, pulled Mary in a mad zigzag through the headstones. They passed by the foundation where the church used to stand, just rubble and a plaque now. Mary had no idea how the little dog managed it, but Lorna led them right to the family plot.

Mary and Lorna stood next to Dad's fresh grave. The Hughes boys had done good work, that was for sure. The headstone bore Mom and Dad's full names, Dad's looking extremely fresh. In not so very much time, the earth over Dad would settle, grass would grow, and it would look just like the earth over Mom. His name engraved on the marble would weather, and look easy and comfortable, just the way _Victoria Van Dort 1871-1952 _did. Lydia must have been in charge of the engraving. Just names and dates, no "beloved father" or "devoted wife" or "dearly departed." Mom and Dad probably would have wanted just that, anyway. No fripperies where death was concerned. Death was what it was. Remembrance was what it was.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here," Mary said_, _gazing at her mother's name on the stone. She thought of the last time she'd seen Mom. Years ago. Too many to count. Mary couldn't remember what her mother's hug felt like. "I should have been here."

For a moment Mary stood, letting herself believe, just briefly, that Mom had somehow heard her. From the road came the rumble of another bus. After it passed by, Lorna walked forward, tugging the leash out of Mary's slack hand. Dragging the leash behind her, the dog gently walked over Dad's fresh sod, leaving little pawprints. When she was just about equal with the middle of the shared headstone, Lorna turned three times and settled herself on the ground. Mary watched, throat tight.

"Did I ever actually tell you my grandson is named after you, Dad?" Mary said to the headstone. "Susan and Edward couldn't pick one. I suggested it. Seemed to fit their last name."

Again, a silence. Mary looked around, letting Lorna have a moment to sit between the graves. Maybe she'd done just this when Mom and Dad were alive, lying between them in bed. Perhaps the little dog found it comforting. The streetlight only carried so far into the cemetery, and it was already quite dark. Still, once her eyes adjusted, Mary didn't have a problem making things out.

Headstones. Monuments. There, right next door to Mom and Dad, must be the plot Anne had mentioned. It looked like a very ordinary patch of earth. The Wearys would catch the leaves and the shade of the old oak, too, it would seem. Anne never could bear to be too far from Mom and Dad. She flew close by the nest.

Lorna looked comfortable, lying there with her head on her paws, clearly thinking profound dog thoughts. So Mary left her to it, setting down the leash and trusting the dog not to stray. Down the well-kept path she went, noticing familiar family names on the headstones as she passed. A row away from the oak "Van Schelven" caught her eye, and she stopped. George, Lydia's husband.

He'd been dead for almost ten years. A long time for Liddie to be alone. Mary couldn't remember having sent a letter when he died, or even precisely how she found out. Anne, probably. And, most likely, Mary hadn't bothered to get in touch. Fresh guilt nagged at her insides. Upon the headstone was a blank space for Lydia's name, when the time came. How very creepy. Mary couldn't abide that type of headstone. Beside the Van Schelven stone was a sadder one, one that Mary remembered. Small and white and old-fashioned looking, with a lamb carved on it.

_Son, 1920_, it read. Mary sighed, heart heavy. She kept walking down the row.

And there, by a stand of birches, the simple little cross. Off by itself on the fringe, since Freddy had no family here. He'd been all hers. All theirs. Now he was planted with them, working his way through eternity without any company. Not that it really mattered. He was dead. Rather beyond company.

"Hi, Freddy," said Mary, her voice a little shaky. "Been a while."

That was all she could manage.

If Dad was right about what happens after you die, Mary had a shrewd idea what Freddy was doing. He was probably spending his afterlife drinking and flirting with cute young skeletons. By the time she died she'd probably be much too old for him. She was already too old for him. Freddy, forever twenty-five.

Though Mary had tried to remain forever young, too. After Freddy died, she'd been desperate. He'd been her whole world. Without him, life just didn't make sense. So she decided she'd be with him forever. The way Dad had talked about. At least she and Freddy could stay just as they were, dancing and having fun and the hard part would be over.

At the time it made so much sense.

It had been Lydia who'd found Mary. To this day she had no idea why Lydia had come by unannounced that night. But come by she had, and had been greeted with an unconscious Mary in a freshly drawn bath. The bottle of sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed to help Mary cope with her grief was empty on the floor. An empty gin bottle and glass beside it.

Of course Mary had little memory of what had happened next. Somehow Lydia had saved her. Epicac had been involved, Mary realized later. Expecting to open her eyes to find herself forever with Freddy in the Land of the Dead, Mary had awakened in bed with Lydia leaning over her. There had been an ugly scene when Mary had regained enough consciousness and strength to try to throw an ashtray at her sister.

"_I just saved your life, Mary!" _Lydia had cried, hurt and angry.

"_No, you didn't!" _Mary had sobbed. _"You ruined my death!"_

Mary cringed at the memory of her words. Of the stricken look on Lydia's face. Not long after that Mary had taken all of her savings, packed a change of clothes, and hopped a boat to New York. She hadn't said goodbye to anyone, not even Mom. She'd left a note behind her on the kitchen table explaining what she'd done, figuring that someone would find it soon enough. Then, once safely arrived in New York, she'd not sent word back home for quite a while. At least three weeks, enough time to secure an apartment and a job. Her family had been terrified, worried sick over her. At the time Mary had thought their worry pretty excessive. She was fine on her own, in a new place. Better. Different. Not Mary Stieglitz, not Mary Van Dort. Not anymore.

As the years passed she'd maintained her distance from home. Eventually the distance was normal. At the time her flight had seemed a prudent choice. Leave and forget, or attempt suicide again. There hadn't seemed to be any in-between. She'd done her best to speed the erasure of memories along. She'd met and married Walter, figuring it was time to settle down into a life which bore very little resemblance to her old one. Walter Jones was not a man Mary Van Dort would ever have gotten together with, that was for sure. But he'd been kind. And insistent. Two daughters because Walter wanted kids. Mary always, in the back of her mind, couldn't help wishing they were Freddy's.

_At least one, just to see what it's like, _had been Fred's line on kids. Mary had always been rather indifferent. _He can at least carry the camera equipment when we're on trips!_ They'd even picked out a name. Their son would have been Ben. A ghost kid, now, a mere idea. To go with all the other ghosts of the life she'd left behind.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she turned away from the gravestone without saying goodbye. Quickly she made her way through the deepening dark back to her parents' gravesite. Lorna was still there, lying quietly just where Mary had left her.

"Come on, girl," Mary said, picking up the leash and giving it a gentle tug. Her voice came out hoarse with unshed tears. Lorna stood without protest, and on the way home she walked more or less by Mary's side, the leash slack between them.

**0—0**

Back at the house the porch light was on to welcome her. In the entry Mary bent to free Lorna from her leash. Mary straightened up again, and cocked an ear toward the parlor. Someone was playing the piano.

Lorna trotted into the parlor and settled herself into the basket by the fireplace. Mary followed along behind. Lydia was at the piano, back to her. Mary watched as Lydia, bent in careful concentration over the keys, plunked out a tune. It took Mary a moment to place it. Lydia's timing was terrible and a few of the notes were off, but Mary recognized the song as the simple tune Dad always used to play to warm up. One of his own devising, he'd always said.

"Since when do you play the piano?" asked Mary, sliding onto the bench beside Lydia.

"I don't," Lydia replied. Even in the dimness Mary could see how pink Lydia's cheeks were with drink. The splotches stood out like blood on her milk-white face. "I think Father was always a little sad about that. That none of us play."

Lydia sighed heavily and rubbed at her face. "I just can't believe it, Mary," she said. For the first time Lydia sounded old. Her voice was deep and croaky from years of smoking and liquor. On top of that, she was sad. "They're both gone. We're orphans."

"I know," said Mary. And then, "You never told. About what happened." It wasn't a question.

For a second Lydia looked confused, but then she shrugged. "No, I didn't. I figured it wasn't my place."

"I never said thanks," Mary said finally. "So thanks. For saving me."

Lydia took a moment before looking at Mary out of the corner of her eye. "It's been worth it?" she asked in a low tone. That know-it-all tone she'd always had, the one that made it clear she knew she was right and was asking just to rub your nose in it. Oh, how Mary loved and hated it in equal measure.

"Yeah," Mary replied, and Lydia nodded.

"You're welcome, then," she said.

With that, Lydia closed the cover over the keys. She picked up her tumbler from where she'd set it on the side table—a fresh one or the one from earlier, Mary didn't know, and tried not to worry about it—and crossed the room to sit in Dad's armchair. After a moment, Mary followed, and took the rocker.

For a long time they sat, Lydia folded up and sipping, Mary gently rocking. The knitting basket she'd played with as a kid was gone. Probably tucked away somewhere. So many years of memories in this house.

"I'll never understand," said Lydia. Her voice was quiet and reflective under the whiskey-induced thickness. Mary looked over at her. Lydia rubbed at her face. Her eyes looked a little watery, though Mary wasn't sure if that was emotion or drink.

"Hm?" Mary asked.

"Wanting to be dead," Lydia said. She glanced at her mostly full tumbler, and then set it on the side table. "I don't understand _wanting _to be dead. How could anyone _want _to be dead?"

"Sometimes," Mary said carefully, gently rocking herself in the chair, "it might seem like a good idea."

Lydia shook her head. When she spoke her voice had the rambling quality of the very tired and very liquored up. "I just...I don't...I mean, when it happened to me I didn't want to go. I never wanted to be dead."

Mary stopped rocking and looked, really looked, at her sister. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what on earth Lydia was talking about before she remembered. It had almost been Lydia, along with the baby. A very close call, one that Lydia had taken months to recover from. _Son, 1920._ Mary shook off a sudden chill. Though she'd never really wanted kids, she still didn't know what she'd do if she lost either of her daughters. The mere thought made her feel sick and unsteady. Loss. Calling it hard was an understatement.

How had Lydia coped? Mary had trouble figuring that out. No wonder Liddie drank so much.

"You know how loss is," Mary finally said. "It's...hard. Hard to cope with." It was all she could say. So she left it at that.

Again, Mary thought of Freddy. Oh, she'd spent so many years trying _not _to think of him. Which, in a lot of ways, was a worse betrayal than remarrying. This was the parlor where he'd proposed. They'd kissed on the sofa. Even at the distance of decades, it hurt too much to think about. But not as much as she'd always feared, not really. That scared her a little in a way she couldn't quite articulate, to know that her grief for Freddy had lost its edge. That she had, in fact, kept on living without him.

"It's late," Lydia said, stretching her arms above her head. "You have to leave early. Perhaps you'd like to go to bed?"

Mary caught her older sister's eye and held her gaze. What was the point in leaving so soon? What did she have to go back to, really? Walter would understand if she wanted to stay for a few more days.

Maybe, just maybe, she could buy up that plot next to Freddy's. If nothing else, she didn't want a stranger sharing his hole for eternity. Walter might have a bit more of a problem with that, but Mary realized she didn't really care. It was time to pick some of Mary Van Dort's responsibilities back up, to acknowledge who she used to be. Who she still was.

"I think I'll change my plans," said Mary. "Am I still welcome to stay?"

**The End**


End file.
